by Nigel Green
‘Gloucester might not ask his councillors,’ he said slowly. ‘If I’m right – and it is a very big “if” indeed – I think he will ask Anne Neville about what you have done.’
I stared at Ratcliffe in amazement.
‘But why would he ask his wife?’
He drummed his fingers on the table irritably.
‘Francis, I’m not certain that he will. Perhaps I’m totally wrong, but I think that Richard relies very heavily on Anne.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Ratcliffe drummed his fingers on the table in frustration.
‘As I said, perhaps I’m wholly incorrect. But you can make your own mind up when I tell you my story. But first of all, what did you make of Anne?’
I thought back to our meeting. Anne Neville had been sitting in a high-backed chair, but as we approached she had passed her embroidery to one of her ladies and had risen to greet us. Pleasantries were exchanged, and Nan and her cousin spoke of childhood memories. Then it was my turn, and it was not until I actually came face-to-face with her that I realised just how like her father she was. It was not just that she shared his love of expensive apparel and gleaming jewelled rings nor was it simply in their same pale blue eyes and warm smiles. I spotted these similarities of course, but when Anne Neville used the same mannerisms as her father Warwick, I felt time move backwards. He’d had a number of course, but you could always tell when he was trying to assess the truth of what someone was telling him. He used to cock his head slightly to one side and tap his forefinger slowly. I saw his daughter do the same when, at her request, I told her my story of the battle where her father had died. For obvious reasons I sought to improve it, but even as I did so, with her head slightly cocked, her long finger began to tap the side of her chair.
The tapping stopped shortly after I had finished speaking.
‘I do not believe that poor father’s death was quite as heroic as you claimed it to be,’ she said softly. ‘But thank you for what you did.’
I reported this to Ratcliffe. I added that I thought Anne Neville was very shrewd and my wife’s comment that her cousin had always been extremely clever.
Ratcliffe narrowed his eyes and began his account.
When he first started in Richard of Gloucester’s service, Ratcliffe was determined to make a success of his role. It was a unique career opportunity for a man such as himself. To make himself as useful as possible to Gloucester, Ratcliffe decided to study the man and to identify areas of potential weakness. Once he discovered these he reasoned that he could look to excel in places where Gloucester was weak and thus make himself indispensible.
As time went by, Ratcliffe’s analyses became more comprehensive, but his conclusion was not a happy one. In his view, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was not a natural leader of men. Instead of inspiring trust, he seemed cold and secretive in his manner.
‘But that is nonsense,’ I interrupted Ratcliffe. ‘I can distinctly remember my first meeting with Richard. He was none of those things.’
Ratcliffe nodded sagely.
‘He had been transformed by the time you arrived back here, but just listen to this.’
In the face of such a chilly personality, it was unsurprising that few of Warwick’s former supporters rushed to serve Gloucester, Ratcliffe continued. The contrast between their former charismatic leader and his unattractive successor was too great. Accordingly it proved increasingly difficult for Ratcliffe to fulfil his role in converting the dead earl’s supporters. At this juncture Anne Neville had intervened directly. She had visited a number of the major families whose loyalty had been to her father and had used her own influence to win them over to her husband. Anne’s efforts swiftly bore fruit and, as they did, Ratcliffe began to notice a subtle change come over Gloucester. Whereas previously he had been awkward, even abrupt, with people, he now seemed more at ease as – with Anne at his side – he welcomed Warwick’s former supporters fulsomely.
At first Ratcliffe assumed that the change was due to Gloucester’s enjoyment of his newly found popularity, but then it occurred to him that certain other disagreeable traits in Richard’s character were gradually being eroded. Where was that fatal impulsiveness of his that had caused so many problems? These days he seldom rushed at things and his speech was measured and controlled. Likewise his natural suspicion of things he did not understand appeared to have been replaced by an open-minded curiosity. Ratcliffe credited Anne’s influence in the transformation of her husband and welcomed it. It was perhaps a surprising development, but one that made his job easier. But if Gloucester’s revolution was unexpected, what truly astonished Ratcliffe was the day that Gloucester had sent for him. With a smile, the duke had presented him with a list of ideas all designed to enhance Gloucester’s prestige in the city of York.
‘But why was that so unusual?’ I asked.
‘Because that was what I was supposed to be working on!’ Ratcliffe exploded. ‘As soon as Warwick’s supporters started to come over to us, I thought it was time to go on the offensive. So I drew up a plan to build up Richard’s reputation in the North.’
‘But if he knew what you were working on, it’s not totally unexpected if he had a few ideas of his own!’ I objected.
Ratcliffe shook his head.
‘Normally I would agree with you. But we are talking of Gloucester here. In all the time I had been with him, I had seldom heard him venture a single original idea. He’s not stupid of course, but he does not have the imagination to resolve matters innovatively.’
I must have looked doubtful. Ratcliffe jabbed his finger at me.
‘Think of your own situation in the West March then. Has Gloucester ever suggested any specific ways in which you could improve the situation there?’
I thought back.
‘No.’
Ratcliffe slammed his hand down.
‘Exactly! So up to this point I admit that I had thought Gloucester pretty unimaginative, but when he called me that day his suggestions flew at me faster than archers’ arrows. Did I not realise that the city of York was getting poorer? Why had I not thought of drafting a letter to his brother, the king, with the aim of getting York’s taxes reduced? Why had I not suggested that one or two of York’s more prominent citizens were drafted onto the ducal council, which would be very popular in the city?’
‘Miles Metcalfe from York is on the ducal council,’ I remembered ruefully.
‘Of course he is now!’ Ratcliffe barked. ‘But tell me, Francis, how could someone as uninspired as Gloucester have suddenly come up with the brilliant idea of putting him there? It was totally out of character.’
‘An isolated incident?’
‘It could have been,’ Ratcliffe admitted, ‘but when you hear the rest of the story I’m not sure you will think so.’
A few days later Ratcliffe had been summoned back again, he continued. On this occasion he had been reproved by Richard for not devising a plan to demonstrate Gloucester’s undeniable piety. Why, Richard had demanded, had Ratcliffe not thought of this? A list of abbeys and churches to be endowed was produced and Ratcliffe was told to get on with it. Ratcliffe protested in vain that he had considered the duke’s military reputation as the key message to be put across to the people of the North. He was corrected instantly. A more holistic approach had to be adopted immediately and, while they were on that subject, why had Ratcliffe not seen fit to instigate a plan which demonstrated the duke and duchess’s concern for their poor and needy people? Ratcliffe had admitted to himself afterwards that these ideas were much better than his own, but, as he did so, he began to feel distinctly uneasy. Obviously, Gloucester was not coming up with all these schemes, so someone else was clearly doing the work that Ratcliffe was supposed to be doing. What worried Ratcliffe was that the other person was doing it a great deal better.
Ratcliffe sensed that he would be dismissed imminently. To his immense surprise, he found himself being promoted twice in rapid succession.
‘I
t made no sense!’ Ratcliffe burst out. ‘On each occasion I was thanked and given greater responsibilities. But why? All I ever did was to execute my unknown rival’s schemes. So why was I being promoted and not him?
‘But then I had a thought,’ my friend went on. ‘Suppose I was merely being moved up the ladder because I was proving useful in implementing my rival’s ideas? Was it just possible that my rival did not see me as a threat, but as a helper?
‘That threw me,’ confessed Ratcliffe, ‘because it is against the natural order of things. Everyone knows you don’t promote your rivals; you knife them in the back at the first opportunity. After a while though, it occurred to me that my rival knew that I could never be a threat to them, no matter how high I rose in Gloucester’s service.’
‘And from that you deduced that it was Anne Neville who was feeding all these ideas to Richard of Gloucester?’ I asked Ratcliffe.
‘I don’t know,’ moaned Ratcliffe. ‘I cannot prove it and yet it is the only way that it all makes sense. Anne Neville is determined to make her husband as great as her father was, so she brings her husband her father’s supporters. Then she builds him up to make him a more charismatic figure. Finally, she helps him to rule by providing him with ideas – and good ones too.’
He turned to me.
‘What do you think?’
It was hard to fault Ratcliffe’s reasoning and I told him so but added that if his theory was correct I was pleased.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked an astonished Ratcliffe.
I made no answer because I was still thinking it through. Hitherto I had seen Richard of Gloucester as an unwelcome interloper, intruding in the realms governed by my dead lords. Although to be fair, I was grateful to him for my appointment in the West March and had liked him when I had met him. The news that Anne Neville was helping her husband to rule put things in a different perspective. After all, if Warwick’s own daughter had the desire to help Richard, should I not do so too? Then I had another thought. If Anne Neville was effectively ruling alongside Richard, was it not possible to view the pair of them as the natural heirs of Warwick and Montague? I put this idea to Ratcliffe excitedly. He nodded soberly.
‘I think we all have a duty to help Gloucester,’ he agreed. ‘The North is not an easy region to run, and, whatever our various motives, we all need Richard and Anne Neville to be successful.’
He chewed his lip nervously.
‘We’ll find out tomorrow if I’m right about Anne Neville.’
‘How have you worked that out?’
He gave a mirthless smile.
‘Well the ducal council hate you, so if Richard of Gloucester goes to them, both of us will be out of a job. But,’ and he crossed his fingers now, ‘if he asks Anne Neville, she will probably endorse your actions since, by doing what you did in the West March, you probably brought a good number of Warwick’s followers over to Gloucester.’
The next day Richard publicly announced his approval of what I had done in the West March. He dispensed with his attendants and invited me to describe my future strategy.
‘What is your plan?’ asked Richard.
‘I’ll put Thomas Broughton in charge of all the men-at-arms and archers we recruit and I will get Dick Middleton to train up the light horse – that will probably take about two years. We need to coordinate the use of all of them offensively and we need someone to organise the money and supplies.’
‘Do you have someone in mind? I might be able to help you there,’ he said.
I thanked him.
‘We will start by clearing the area round Carlisle and reopen the track to Maryport. We will get patrols out on the major routes to encourage traders and merchants. After we have done that, we will start probing the borders and then I will clear out the Debateable Land.’
‘The Debateable Land?’
‘It’s a piece of land about twelve miles long by four miles wide, but no one is really sure. It’s between England and Scotland and bounded by three rivers: the Sark, the Lyne, and the Liddel. It’s of little value, but it is the home of every thief and robber, English or Scots.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Richard.
‘Because it belongs to no one. Some years ago when the borders were reset, no one could agree whether it should be English or Scottish. In the end, it was agreed that it belonged to neither and, as such, there is no law enforced there,’ I replied. ‘There are reports of an unofficial leader there, an Englishman called Skiam, who directs raids on both the Scots and English with the utmost ferocity.’
I finished my wine.
‘After we have done all that, I will carry out raids into Scotland itself. Perhaps you will bring men, and we can capture and burn Dumfries.’6
Richard eyed me curiously.
‘Despite the difficulties you will face, Francis, I sense that you are relishing the task ahead of you. Am I right?’
I frowned. It was something I had not thought about, but now that he had voiced it, I realised that he was correct. He grinned at my bemused expression.
‘You can forget the conventional response that – as a soldier – you are naturally delighted to serve me to the best of your abilities…’
‘I was not going to say anything nearly so ridiculous!’ I protested.
I realised then he was teasing me and smiled ruefully.
‘Well, why do you enjoy your work so much then?’ he demanded.
I drew a deep breath.
‘I suppose that I like trying to solve all the challenges in the West March. I like working with men who I respect – people like Moresby and Broughton. I’m proud that others in the region are beginning to support us because it means that they believe in us.’
I looked at him squarely.
‘I’m also proud of the fact that today you backed me. It shows that you have confidence in us and what we are going on to achieve.’
Richard of Gloucester nodded thoughtfully.
‘We do, Francis. Believe me, we do.’
CHAPTER 5
I glanced round the table.
‘So that is my plan. What are your own views?’
There was silence in the council chamber of Carlisle Castle as my colleagues digested my strategy. I glanced round the room as I waited. As befitted a frontier garrison, it was uncompromisingly masculine. No colourful tapestries covered the grey-stoned walls, and there were no scented rushes under foot. Instead we furnished it to reflect the life we lived, so that massive antlers and spears lined the walls. On an old wolf skin in front of the fire, Broughton’s dog slumbered noisily.
I suspected that the wiry cavalryman opposite me would speak first, and I knew that his words would carry great weight with the others. Dick Middleton was respected by everyone for his sheer professionalism. I recalled his look of horror when I had first shown him the volunteers who comprised the Carlisle horse.
‘You lured me over from the East March to command this rabble,’ my boyhood friend had moaned. He glanced at me reproachfully. ‘You’re deluding yourself! There’s no chance of turning them into proper light horse.’
Despite his gloomy forecast, he had set to with a will; under his firm guidance the Carlisle horse was gradually transformed from a collection of enthusiastic amateurs into a disciplined body of horsemen. Next to Dick, Thomas Broughton and Moresby’s gaze lingered on the final member of our group. For a moment I wondered why they were staring so hard at the tall, fair-haired figure, but then I understood. The issue of supply was central to my plan; Broughton and Moresby were trying to speculate whether Edward Franke could deliver what we would need. For my part, I had no doubt that he would. Ever since Gloucester had seconded Edward to the West March, he had proved invaluable. Within weeks of him arriving he had gained my total trust, and, accordingly, I had delegated to him all matters relating to pay and supply. Contrary to my expectation, it was Broughton who broke the silence.
‘To summarise your thinking, Francis, you believe that it is essential to destroy Skiam a
nd his thieves in the Debateable Land before attacking the Scots. This, we have agreed in the past. But now,’ and his voice shook with these words, ‘as a result of the Anderson atrocity you want to obliterate the Debateable Land completely. To achieve this, you are proposing to attack it in winter. Am I correct?’
It was not a strategy I relished, but it was my duty to our people in the West March to ensure that there could never be a repeat of the atrocity.
‘Yes.’
Broughton pulled at his straggly beard.
‘After what Skiam did to Anderson’s men no one in this room is going to disagree with you. So it is only a question of how we do it.’
‘Those thieves and felons in the Debateable Land are worse than the Scots,’ agreed Dick Middleton in disgust. ‘We will make your plan work, Francis.’
I turned to Edward.
‘Well?’
His blue eyes met mine.
‘Skiam’s raids are the most savage,’ he said simply, ‘so I agree. But as for Anderson…’ His voice trailed off.
I thanked them; when they left, I let my thoughts drift back to Anderson’s patrol.
Anderson’s men had been late in returning, I recalled. In itself this was a concern, but not a major one. We had followed routine practice and a day later another patrol was sent out to look for them, but they found no trace of them and our worry steadily increased as subsequent searches failed to find any survivors. As we grieved them and cursed the Scots, an emaciated figure stumbled up to Carlisle’s main gates. He was ragged and exhausted, indeed so unrecognisable was the man that the guards initially refused to believe that the man was whom he claimed to be. I understood their confusion as the Anderson who was brought to me was so terribly different from the man who had ridden out just a few weeks before.